He laid the Funeral Constellation again, but the little stars of intent that lit the paths between us lacked their old zeal. The cracked gear at the heart of his Mantle was turning slower, its grip on my choices less certain. My Loom and the Prism Ward had found their lanes, and they had teeth.
I didn't try to outlast him. His High Radiant reserves were still deeper than mine. Instead, I folded what I had into less and less space, until the world had to agree with my sums or choke on them. I sewed the shortest possible line down with two tiny anchors from the Loom. My carry-through began before the first move had decided to exist, and I buried my exit inside the motion of sheathing a blade that was still cutting. Nothing flashy. Nothing he could get a hand on.
He answered with a new rite. "Nine-circle—Requiem: Black Procession."
